Took advantage of the lovely fall weather (and being locked out of the office during the government shutdown) to make a short mid-week trip down the coast. Left the city in the late afternoon and decided to stop for dinner at the fabled Alice's Restaurant instead of attempting a too-hungry-to-think-straight camp dinner in the dark. For no particular reason I opted for a chicken sandwich instead of sampling from the myriad of burgers, but you know what? It was great. Franklin's burger was also pretty great, as was the big wooden deck and small-town-in-the-woods vibe, so I'm thinking a return trip will definitely ensue. The pre-camp dinner did the trick in keeping us from snarling at each other while looking for a site among all the unclaimed "Reserved" signs in Butano State Park (sometimes I want to shake my fist at Reserve America) and constructing our tent in total darkness. But once we settled in it was fantastic, so unseasonably warm I sat by the fire in a sweater and shorts and the moon played peek-a-boo through crazy tall trees while we drank wine and made fancy-pants s'mores with grilled peaches and ginger snaps.

Lit out in the morning and stopped through the town of Pescadero for coffee and provisions. Made the usual run into Arcangeli's Bakery for their fresh-baked artichoke bread then noticed Downtown Local, an awesome little coffee shop I don't remember seeing the last time we came through. Sightglass coffee, rad decor with lots of motorbike memorobilia and vintage touches, and a little side shop selling local/bay area goodies (honey, soaps and apothecary stuff, candles, etc). A perfect stop to tide us over til we got down to the Pie Ranch and were able to gorge ourselves on berry baskets and a miniature apple pie.

Made a detour off the highway so Franklin could skate a ditch hidden back behind a bunch of bushes. It never ceases to amaze me how dudes (and ladies) can sniff these spots out and then find them again.

While he shredded, I got to admire the view.

Next stop was Harley Farms to say hey to the goats (and purchase the fruits of their labor) then rounded out our mammalian experience with a hike through Ano Nuevo State Park to see the elephant seals and on to Costanoa to grab a tent cabin for the night.

In keeping with our "fancy coastal camping" vibe (ie. there's a heated mattress in that tent) we grilled up lamburgers with minted yogurt sauce and lots of pea sprouts, plus a minty peach salad for good measure. Sometimes pre-planning camp meals makes life both easier and extra delicious.

And a nearly-full moon just makes everything magical.

Going coastal? If you're in the bay area, you've probably cruised down the 1 and hit most of these spots already, and you can do pretty much everything in a day if you don't have the time to stay overnight. But if you do, Butano State Park's got some lovely walk-in sites (as well as some pretty secluded drive-up ones) and Costanoa's a spot worth checking out. I imagine it's a zoo there during the summer, but mid-week off-season it was fairly empty and with tent cabins starting at $80/night (which includes use of the "comfort stations" with saunas, heated bathrooms and outdoor showers) it's a pretty good deal. They also have AAA rates and full moon specials worth looking into. You can roll straight down Highway 1 from the city, or take 280 south to Woodside then swerve your way through the redwoods past Alice's and La Honda on the 84, just depends on your mood. And if you do go, make time to stop into Duarte's in dowtnown Pescadero for a libation or a bowl of soup, it's a favorite spot with old-time ambiance and an excellent juke box.

Don't call it Hornsilver? Gold Point, Nevada is no ordinary ghost town, with structures made uninhabitable by wind and rain and only the hardiest of desert rats and tumbleweeds passing through. Oh, no. Gold Point has at least seven full time desert rats residing in its collection of wooden shacks and there's electricity to boot. A couple times a year that number may even multiply into the hundreds as people roll in from all over the state (and it's neighboring territories) to a to spend a weekend whooping it up in one of the last "living" ghost towns in the west. Sometimes there's a staged gunfight, sometimes a chili cook off. But even on a normal weekend Gold Point is open for business and if the saloon appears shuttered, Sheriff Stone will happily open 'er up and set the resident bartender Walt to fixing you a drink. Of course, you'd have to have detoured off Highway 95 somewhere between Goldfield and Beatty to find Gold Point in the first place, but stranger things have happened. Like defending Libertarianism to a Constitutionalist over a game of shuffleboard.

September is a funny time. It always seems to signal the end of summer and all it's glorious good times, and yet the sun continues to shine so there's the impetuous feeling that you could get one last warm weekend in before autumn truly starts, one last dive off a hot granite rock into a cool blue river, one last sleep under a cloudless sky. So sometimes you push it and make one final dash just to make sure that it's really the end. Or catch that last summer day if it's not.

This particular weekend, we left the city in a deluge of rain and climbed up Highway 49 past Nevada City hoping the Lakes Basin might carry some sunshine. But as the road stretched on, the fog got denser and the rain wouldn't abate. With a coin-flip chance of spending the night in a soggy tent, we turned back around near Sierra City and took our chances on one of the cabins at Malakoff Diggins State Park. Rolled up just after dark and snagged the only empty cabin, then awoke the next morning to glorious sunshine.

A table, a sink, two bunks and a woodstove, pretty much all you need.

Harvested apples and experimented with eggs in the Toast-Tite, making for a damn fine breakfast. Thus fortified with snacks, we left North Bloomfield (née Humbug) and set out to explore the diggins.

A short history lesson: In the early 1850s miners weren't finding as much gold in the mountain streams and decided to go straight to the source (ie. the hills). Since carrying large loads of earth to existing water sources in order to sift through them wasn't optimal, they devised a way to bring the water to the possible ore-source instead: dam up the rivers, build miles of wooden canals (called flumes) to carry the water down to the diggins, and channel all the power of it's journey through canvas hoses and cannon-like nozzles called "monitors" to blast away the hillsides. By the 1860s nearby towns were buried under dozens of feet of mud, and thousands of acres of farmland had been destroyed by tailings carried down through the Sacramento Delta. Malakoff Diggins remained California's largest hydraulic mine, with 7 giant monitors firing water around the clock and it's estimated that by 1883 San Francisco Bay was filling with silt at a rate of one foot per year. Whoah. Pretty heavy to think about. The extensive damage wasn't going unnoticed, however, and in January of 1884 the case of Woodruff v. North Bloomfield Mining and Gravel Company ruled hydraulic mining illegal. As far as I can tell, it still is.

The Hiller Tunnel was used as drainage for mining debris, but even at a length of 557 ft it proved not quite big enough and a much larger tunnel was burrowed underneath it. Currently it's utilized as an excellent way to creep out your lady friend and/or ditch her in total darkness.

With daylight still pouring down, we headed to Mineral Bar campground in the Auburn State Recreation Area. I'd been wanting to go ever since I developed a theory that our hike from Iowa Hill down to the river back in June had landed us not far from the campground. While I think the campground is a little further downstream than I'd calculated, I was more surprised to recognize that we'd actually been there 5 or 6 years before. Here's to being fortuitously forgetful.

The campground sits quite literally on the banks of the North Fork of the American River, with sites so close you can practically roll out of your tent and splash your face as a wake up call (or at least avoid talking to anyone in between). You can't reserve them so it's usually packed during the summer (which is probably why it had been so many years since we'd returned) but it would be well worth taking a mid-week trip just to snag one.

Woke once again to sunshine and a blast of clear, sunny heat. It being a Monday we had the place to ourselves, with a sandy bar to lay on and icy water to cool down in and I couldn't have asked for a better way to end a summer. Wish granted.

Last ups? Both Mineral Bar campground and the cabins at Malakoff Diggins can be reached by hopping on I-80 east for a few hours so you've no excuse not to go. Unless you've been a million times already, in which case you can save it for the rest of us, totally fine. Either way, Mineral Bar is near the town of Colfax, while Malakoff requires veering north on Hwy 49 and following directions to the "town" of North Bloomfield within Malakoff Diggins State Historic Park. Reservations can be made for the cabins but they're currently only open May-September, a bit of a shame as the area is really beautiful later in the fall (who can forget the Pioneer Thanksgiving?) so my hope is that someday the State Parks system will be given boundless resources to maintain the things we love. I'm holding my breath til then. If you do make the trip during the warm season, the magical Yuba's right close by, but do yourself a favor and head to Mineral Bar at some point---even if it's just for a day swim, it's a spot well worth checking out.

"The most important things are the hardest things to say. They are the things you get ashamed of, because words diminish them---words shrink things that seemed limitless when they were in your head to no more than living size when they're brought out. But it's more than that, isn't it? The most important things lie too close to wherever your secret heart is buried, like landmarks to a treasure your enemies would love to steal away. And you may make revelations that cost you dearly only to have people look at you in a funny way, not understanding what you've said at all, or why you thought it was so important that you almost cried while you were saying it." Stephen King, The Body

The city slogan of Dunsmuir, California is "Home of the Best Water on Earth" but it's unnofficial tagline is "the small-town home you wished you had grown up in". And you know what? They're not so far off on either count. With bubblers around town pouring out the clearest Shasta water and train tracks leading to swimming holes in the pines, it evokes a nostalgia for simpler times while allowing a person to believe that they might actually exist right then, right there. Of course all things summertime have a magic quality to them, and this adventure particularly so as it intertwined both the 4th of July and the novella that would make my summer. You guys want to go see a dead body?

And so it begins. Up the tracks to Mossbrae Falls.

Nothing like walking over a trestle bridge, joking about Vern Tessio and Gordie Lachance, and hearing a whistle blow around the bend. Back in the day, Dunsmuir was home to one of the most famous hobo jungles in the country.

The cabins at Cave Springs Resort were built in 1923 and I can't imagine they've changed much since (and they haven't changed a lick since our first visit 6 or so years ago). Two-burner gas rings for cooking, clawfoot tub for soaking and a fridge out back for keeping the meats and bottles cool.

Spent a day at nearby Castle Lake, swimming out to the floating dock and avoiding the crowds by hiking to the end of the trail.

A man and his poncho, never the two shall part.

Ventured into the town of McCloud for a huge and tasty (albeit slow-moving) lunch at the White Mountain Cafe, a recommendation of folks we'd met the day before. Both town and restaurant were totally charming without being tourist-kitschy and there's square dancing at the Dance Hall that we'll have to come back for.

The icy McCloud River couldn't feel better on a hot day.

Nor the post-swim shade of a blackberry thicket for Eleanor the dog.

Frankie and Eli tacked the middle falls of the McCloud onto their respective jumping resumes, a feat that was likely as sketchy as it looked (though the jump was from the height of the waterfall, not the top of the cliff, thank God).

Ended things with a cold beer and a small exploration of the Sacramento River running below our cabins (where Cave Springs' namesake lies). Four days gone so fast.

Maybe it's something in the water? They say the waters that flow out of Shasta have magical powers that I'm not apt to deny. Or maybe it's just hard not to feel good when surrounded by happy friends, warm sun and a place that evokes the charm of a less frenetic time. The only thing missing was a game of baseball and I have a feeling that's not too far out of question (perhaps on the field where Babe Ruth played an exhibition game in 1922?) As expressed by thethe Sultan of Swat himself: "We don't know yet how to tell you what a wonderful time we had in Dunsmuir. We have been treated royally in little towns and big cities, but when it comes to beautiful girls, wonderfully fine fellows and the real two-fisted spirit of California - little old Dunsmuir gave us more laughs, more hospitality, more thrills and more things to remember than any place between Broadway & Shasta. We didn't expect to visit Dunsmuir, but believe us, we will positively be back (in person)!" As will we, swimming in those cold, refreshing waters and listening to the melancholy wail of locomotives in the night.

Every year is getting shorter, never seem to find the time...
And just like that, summer is over. I know, I know, there's this whole Indian Summer thing, but I'm talking about the true summer of a Bradbury childhood when school ends and hasn't a chance of starting for months to come. A summer of blazing sunshine and not a raincloud in sight unless one of those exciting thunder-and-lightning kinds suddenly rolls out of a darkening horizon and pelts you with hot, fat drops. A summer that's pretty much non-existent in San Francisco, but can be found just a few hours in any direction. That was my summer and it's almost impossible to believe how fast it went. Is it because each year that we get older, time goes exponentially faster? Or is it because this summer was filled with more awesome adventures than ever before? Whatever the case, this summer flew by like no other. Its start was officially marked by a trip to Sugar Pine Reservoir in mid-June, with camping, rope-swinging, fireside grilling and a crazy-steep hike to a secret swim spot on the American River. An auspicious beginning to any season.

To hear the softly spoken magic spell...So much Floyd out of context, I know. But maybe it's one and the same, its just that instead of worrying about how little time we have and how much we have yet to do, the feeling that life is quickening should be the impetus towards focusing on what we really care about, what we find to be good and true and just honing in on those things while all the other shiny objects fade into the background. It's a nice practice to live by and one I hope to work on more and more each day. And so, places like Sugar Pine become annual favorites, new favorites are found and planning to return to places of happiness just makes the future even brighter. And you can be damn sure we're starting next summer as soon as the mountain temps hit 77 degrees. Though this particular trip was shorter than I'd like, it was the perfect way to start a season of sunshine and swimming and only left us with a tiny itch of poison oak to remind us of our good time.

Like the moon and the stars and the sun? Spent the 4th of July at Cave Springs Resort in the town of Dunsmuir, where fireworks lit the sky (though luckily not the low hanging pines and electrical wires) and stars took over when those died out. A full travel log to come, but these came from the acquisition of a Mamiya 645 (on loan) and some Portra 160 and I'm smitten with both the camera and its subjects. That was a damn fine holiday.

Can't tell you how many years I've been wanting to go to Steep Ravine...

Not so hard to guess why. It's a pretty damn magical place, perched on the bluffs overlooking the sea, with rustic cabins and woodstoves and tide pools. Wait for the tide to go out and you have a beach the size of a football field with pebbles to stack, driftwood to toss and tide pools to sift through. Play your cards (and tides) right and you might get water low enough to encounter some natural hot springs (and accompanying hippies). Even if it's not a minus tide you can find pockets of warmth along the shore and dig out little foot baths while bright orange and purple starfish cling to the rocks. Meanwhile, tadpoles push their way through the inland pond and Calla Lilies are currently blooming on the hills.

And where did all this magic come from? Historically speaking, it's kind of a fascinating story, mostly because it's ridiculously hard to find facts that all fit together (seriously, you'd think there'd be a succinct history somewhere, but no, it's like another Mullholland-land-shenanigan). From what I could gather, it all started when congressman and conservationist William Kent willed 200 acres of his Marin property (including Steep Ravine Canyon) to help create the Mount Tamalpais State Park upon his death in 1928. (For reference, Kent is the same gentleman who nearly 21 years earlier donated another large piece of property which became Muir Woods.) Prior to his death, the land had been privately owned by Kent and either the parcel at the base of Steep Ravine had special rights still left to the Kent family or they retained ownership of that bit, because in the mid-1940s (or late 1930's depending on the source) one of Kent's sons, William Kent Jr. built the cabins and started leasing them to local families. (It appears Kent, Jr. was a bit of a family outcast due to his parcelling up of various Kent estates.) One of these lessees was Dorothea Lange, who spent a great deal of time there communing with (and photographing) her family from the mid-1950's until her death in 1965. Somewhere in there the cabins must've become State Park property because in the 70's a San Francisco newspaper ran a scandal story about how friends with friends in higher places were getting first dibs on staying at the cabins. The California State Parks Department decided to avert the crisis by simply tearing the cabins down and returning the area to it's natural state---lucky for us there was a public outcry and the cabins remained. Of course while everyone was deciding what to do with them, the structures fell into various states of disrepair and by the time it was deemed they should be restored and made fully public 3 (or 4, again depending on the source) were so far gone they had to be demolished. Finally, on April 1, 1984, 10 of the original cabins (each with a new roof, woodstove, table and sleeping platform) were included in the state environmental campground system (for a whopping $12 a night). These days, reserving the cabins is no small feat, but if you're flexible you'll almost always find something. And sometimes you can catch the moon and tides just right and really dig your toes in.

I've just returned from a magical place. A place where vines tangle around telephone poles, housepaint fades from indigo to aquamarine and the sound of waves never ceases. Or maybe I've just been reading too much Garcia Marquez. In either case, I give you small a glimpse of the incredibly good time that was, and is, Isla Bastimentos, Panama.

From a big plane to a small plane to a water taxi to an island with only a concrete walkway from one end to the other and a host of muddy paths to everywhere else.

While the island is about 20 square miles, the town of Bastimentos takes up only a tiny fraction at the western tip and the rest makes up part of the Bastimentos Island National Marine Park.

I am smitten by the Balboas, which replaced the Columbian peso as currency when Panama became independent in 1904 (with a little help from the U.S. who desired the building of a small canal).

To the right of the house we were staying at lay this concrete shell, abandoned at some point in the past and now sprouting 4-foot palm trees in roofless rooms where coconuts had fallen and taken root.

View from our deck of the fisherwomen and their handlines, mastering the art of throwing a rock tied to a fishing line with two cockle-baited hooks and a chunk of wood for a handle. Feel a bite and you pull that line up as fast as you can.

Success (with the help of a boat and a couple other fishermen) and the makings of a damn fine dinner.

Warm nights and jetlag always make for interesting antics.

Morning walks through the jungle.

Giant fire ants and incredible flora.

Especially as the path winds higher in elevation, in this case culminating with a visit to Up in the Hill, an incredible little hideout with coffee, the best egg salad sandwich ever (no joke, I'm now a lover of Katuk leaves) and an assortment of coconut oils they press themselves.

They also rent out a beautiful little cabin remniscent of a ship's quarters.

With this for a view.

Back down by the sea and through the cemetery.

The occasional lazing afternoon of arts and crafts.

And guitar playing. And book reading. And all that good stuff.

Found ourselves a real dead pufferfish floating in the sea and lured him to shore, whereupon we named him Spike and gave him a true Central American burial.

For some reason this kid kept waking up looking like a slot machine. Which, oddly, wasn't too far off as we found the island's "casino" one night and lost a cumulative $3.

A wise man once said "Sometimes you win. Sometimes you lose. Sometimes it rains."

And sometimes you you contemplate your good fortune with rum and pineapple on the deck of the Caribbean View Hotel while winning a few hands of Cruddy Slippa' (hint: it's a card game).

Made a new friend with a boat and went out for a few hours of fishing.

And swimming. The water must've been warmer than the air here in the city.

Satya dropped anchor, Vera dropped a line and immediately this guy was hooked. A breakdown in communication left Heidi and I staring blindly as she tried to pull the hook out of it's manically flipping body until I attempted to brain it with a flip-flop. Which of course didn't work, but probably stunned it into an indignant stupor.

I want to go everywhere by boat.

Another day trip to the other side of the island.

Red Frog Beach, a place of white sand and ridiculously clear water (and riptides).

Harvesting the local bounty.

Back on the dock in time for some dusky fishing.

Into the night with more rum, dinner at Roots, boat rides under the stars and some very drunk Nebraskans at Aqua Lounge in Bocas. The latter was everything you'd imagine with a spring break on spring break vibe and plenty of terrible jams, but somehow all of that seems more amusing than offensive when the air is 72 degrees at 10pm. Still, I'd take the The Point on our side over Aqua any day, with its basketball-court-by-day-and-ridiculously-big-sound-system-and-even-bigger-ladies-setup-by-night. I love it when you realize the lady giving you a $1 rum and coke is the same lady who helped you play the leprechaun game at the casino two nights ago and you're right smack in the middle of a small town good time.

Spent our last day on an expedition further afield, snorkeling at Coral Cay, where we found Pina Coladas to be excellent fish bait.

Matt, our fearless leader for the day (far left), moments before he sped us through the mangroves in his boat and barely dodged a manta ray leaping out of the water and trying to land in his lap. No joke.

Walked back along Red Frog so Relish could hit his favorite jumping log one more time, then hiked through the jungle back to our side of the island.

Our gang. Best last day ever.

So long, Panama. As that other wise man said "In Dreams, in dreams, in dreams".

Fantasy Island? It may not be for everyone, but it's near to heaven in my heart (and I think I'm not alone in that sentiment). It was 6 years ago that I first went to Panama and there's no way I'm waiting that long to return. In fact if those ladies never come home I may be there sooner than you think. Til then there's a coconut ring on my finger to remind me and a new year to look forward to.

Greetings from Twin Peaks? If you know me, you know this should have happened nearly 20 years ago. My mother hardly ever let me watch television growing up, but she must've sensed something in Lynch's masterpiece (or at least had a wicked sense of cinema, which in fact she does) because after a similarly bizarre beginning---watching them place Laura Palmer's body in the ground the summer before my first year of middle school, bundled in blankets with my great aunt Betsy while on a trip to our homestead in New Holstein, Wisconsin---she kindly brought the portable 8-inch TV out of the closet every week so that I could follow Agent Cooper et al. in their quest for Laura's killer and beyond. She even indulged my newfound penchant for plaid skirts, sweater sets and moody jazz. Sound familiar? It's strange then, to remind oneself that a place that seemed so real is actually just barely there in reality---there's no checked tile in the "RR" diner nor is that even its name, there's construction at Snoqualmie Falls and the Great Northern plainly isn't. But it's still a thrill, hunting down that which doesn't really exist, I mean why else would we do it? So keep doing it. And if you do, there's an amazing place in North Bend, Wa. called the Log Cabin Bed and Breakfast where you can stay in a teepee for the night, build a fire inside and cook breakfast by a river. From there, Snoqaulmie Falls is just up the road a ways and continues falling, falling, falling. Don't forget to stop by Twede's for pie, while the interior may rate nothing special the pie is still damn fine. Our trip continued east from Lynch-land through George, Washington and on to Quincy, home to industrial agriculture and a wonderful hill that overlooked the town and its celebratory explosions of light for miles around. Who knows what yours will bring.

Back in May we took the adventure that started it all this summer: 3 days and 2 nights on the Colorado River, hot springs and camping and the birth of the Tough Canyon Crew. It was one of those trips that happens only once or twice in your life---friendships cemented, people falling in love, endless laughter and an amazing sense of camaraderie that only really occurs when you're isolated from the rest of the world. And when it ends there's this empty, bus-home-from-summer-camp feeling where you know life will go on and you'll see those people again and you'll still have laughter and more adventures to come, but somehow that one just hit the spot unlike anything else. And then you're home and nothing is quite the same again and you wish with all your might that it wasn't just a memory, but a feeling you could hold onto, a life you could keep living. Maybe someday I'll write about it, tell the stories and share the jokes, but right now it still kind of aches even to think about. It was just that good. If I could go back and put my boat in under the bridge another time, start that adventure again and keep returning to the beginning to do it all over time after time, I think I'd be in heaven. And maybe I'm not the only one.

A few weeks after Sugar Pine, summer fever continued with an impromptu trip to the Yuba River---or more accurately it continued with someone else's trip to the Yuba that I managed to weasel my way into, thus it was impromptu for me. And how lucky I was, as not only was the weather amazing and the swimming spot fantastic, but you know that moment at the end of an epic day when everyone gets a little hangdog and says "Man, I wish we didn't have to go back to work tomorrow"? But you all climb into the car and head for home because being the responsible adults that you are, you do have to go to work tomorrow? Well, what if you just said to hell with work and went to Nevada City instead and got a giant room at The National Hotel and ran into your old roommate at Cirino's and didn't make it to that rock show across the street because you were sitting on your veranda in shirtsleeves til 2 a.m. watching people spill out of The Mine Shaft (where you'd already dropped back a few earlier in the evening) and woke up the next day and went right back to that river again? Well then, you would know what this trip was like.

Like every good trip, there were teacups involved. This time it's a little homemade Ponderosa Limoncello, a birthday gift courtesy of that Tucker kid.

Speaking of kids, this one wasn't too bummed about the swimming conditions.

Krista managed to lose her straps, yet keep her top on through sheer willpower (her willpower that is, I was voting for a different outcome).

Josh never stopped moving long enough for me to get a decent photo. It being his birthday, I don't blame him, I mean who wants to sit still for pictures when you could be perfecting your Smurf Dive or yodeling at wildlife? I don't know what I'll be doing for my own birthday next year, but if I can reciprocate this dude will definitely be invited.

Speaking of dives, here we have Nate Murray demonstrating the art of The Flying Squirrel.

Happy days are ours.

Start with a teacup and end with a teacup. Or three, depending on how much tequila you imbibed the night before. Either way, it's nothing a little river time can't fix. But really, is there anything a little river time can't fix?

Birds fly high, you know how I feel? Call in sick, run away, forget all the things you were going to do and go jump in a river. I promise it'll change everything. Hop on I-80 and when you hit Hwy 49, head north towards Nevada City. Find North Bloomfield Road and wind your way down to the bottom of the canyon. When you hit the old wooden bridge, stop. That's all I'm allowed to say lest I get reprimanded for blowing up everyone's favorite spot, but there will probably be a handful of cars parked by the side of the road so you'll know you're in the right area. Of course, you'll have to come back sometime, but why not cross that antiquated trestle bridge when you come to it?

Last month we returned to one of my favorite camp spots, Sugar Pine Reservoir. Tucked up in the mountains near Foresthill it's got everything a summer heart could desire: warm piney air, water to swim in and a thousand stars to try and peek behind. It's also a great place to stage a 3-day tin can massacre if you happen to have an arsenal of Red Ryders...

(This summer brought to you by the advice of Will Rogers.)

Said advice is also being helped along by a golden jambox emitting the perfect sounds for fleeing the city with the windows down, drinking micheladas around a campfire and pontificating suicide vs. Suicide (and it's impact on Springsteen's Nebraska). In accordance with Camp Rules, there was most definitely no fucking (comma) complaining.

There was, however, a great deal of this throughout the weekend.

And a not insubstantial amount of this as well.

Sugar Pine even has a little island you can swim out to. It's like heaven for the simple pleasures.

One of those pleasures being a campsite remote enough that you can have 3 Red Ryders, a handgun and pump action rifle all throwing BBs at the same time.

By the second night our set up was amazing. Shatterblast disks, tin can pyramids, water bottles in the trees and a camp skillet way off on a branch. There is no sound quite so rewarding as the glorious metallic "ping" of a BB hitting its target.

BB guns may have consumed most of our energy, but no good trip is complete without a bit of knife or hatchet action.

Lest we should forget, there was also a crazy huge fire raging in the area. Every time the wind would shift, a haze of smoke would cross the sky and give everything an unreal amber sort of filter. Coupled with the incredible lack of people for a summer weekend (much of the area having been evacuated) and the occasional chopper grabbing water from the reservoir, it was a bit like our own personal Apocalypse Now. Not to mention that we arrived on Friday the 13th and probably only staved off a full scale Zombie Apocalypse Now through our continuous shooting and a healthy dose of chair flinging.

We also consistently killed it at dinner making. Somewhere in there I bet Alanna's got the pictures to prove it. She's also got photos showing that there were in fact women on this trip, something I managed not to document. Go figure.

Then all of a sudden it's time to pack it all up and head for the city. The trip home is never without a tinge of sadness but a sandwich at Worton's in Foresthill helps ease the suffering.

Their parking lot also claims one of the best views in Northern California, hands down.

Even when viewed through a lens of wildfire smoke.

There's also a secret spot I keep tucked away for just those times when the traffic starts to grind and you wish all that golden daylight wasn't being wasted on a return to civilization.

A few more beers, another hour of bare feet on grass and crickets singing in the air.

Just don't let your heart burst while the sun goes down and the warm breeze plays over your face and you can't help but think if things ended right then and there, it'd be kind of perfect. Or maybe you just have on keep on running til you catch that feeling one more time.

Gotta get out while we're young? Its been a summer of yearning for perpetual adventure and this gem only made it worse, in the best way possible. One of these days we'll get back up there but in the meantime, you should go see for yourself what I'm always rambling about. It's a 3 hour drive to Giant Gap campground but with good company and ample tunes the pavement flies right on by and if the going gets really rough you can take a detour off to Plainfield Station. All I'll say about that particular roadhouse is that it's on County Road 98 in Woodland and if you make the effort to find it, you deserve every magical moment you spend there.

A year ago today my Amah passed away and I started thinking. And then I couldn't stop thinking. The quickness with which everything happened (that first phone call, a weekend of hospital visits, the start of chemo and the near immediate downturn all in the span of a month) left me feeling like I'd been running with my breath held and when I finally stopped and gasped for that burst of air supposed to slow my pounding heart, I found instead an abyss come pouring in, a nighttime blackness like a swiftly moving sky studded with a thousand terrors, this unceasing jumble of syllables and panics and reactions. I'd think so much it felt like I couldn't turn my brain off or control what was happening inside of it, lying awake exhausted by a repeating phrase and sleeping only long enough to wake dream-riddled to a new tangle of emotions. There didn't seem to be enough time to figure it all out, or even to figure out what "it" was in the first place. Some people are masters of shutting off their brains, others have curtains they can hide behind. Somewhere in there it occurred to me that if I could just sit quietly, if I could find a place that required almost nothing of me, I might be able to turn it all off for a little while, maybe gain some distance with which to look at things. Or perhaps just watch the world go by without having to take part in it. A year later I'm reminded that today is also my mother's birthday and it was her mother who passed away. We are cycles of birth and life and death and there is no stopping any of it, but you know what? That’s okay. It’s only the same perpetual motion which creates these countless fears, that can soothe them as well. And so, once again I'm reminded of how the mind can begin to unravel---and of the best way I've found to soothe it. It isn't the first time a train ride has saved me and I'm sure it won't be the last.

So take me to the station and put me on the train, I've got not expectations to pass through here again...But if I do, I'll know how to leave. Who would've thought I could find salvation in 11 hours of The Rolling Stones and a train I wasn't laying down in front of?

A continuation of our adventure on the tiny island of Spanish Wells and it's immediate surroundings.
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Just before Thanksgiving of 2009 (I know, I know, I sit on these photos like crazy) Jesse, Evelyn, Franklin and I spent almost two weeks in the Bahamas. The short of it is that Evelyn and Jesse planned it all, got a sweet yellow house on the beach and let Franklin and I crash their romantic getaway. Sun, sand, warm water and crazy sunsets included. The only catch? The small island of Spanish Wells, on which our narrative takes place, is dry. And I don't mean lacking in water, with which it's surrounded, but dry in the 18th Amendment sort of way ie. nary a beer or drop of rum in sight. The island was also for the most part filled with churchgoing folk left over from the Loyalist days who tended to close up shop by 4 pm on the regular and were most certainly not open on Sundays. Still, such hurdles only served to make us more cunning and we quickly learned to stockpile hooch from mainland Eleuthera (a short water-taxi ride away), pick-up armloads of takeaway from Norma's and plan our fish, crab and lobster dinners in advance. Strangely, the driveway known as "Papa Scoop's Soft-Serve Ice-Cream Stand" stayed open well into the night, providing good reason to take a drunken golf cart ride in the dark. Yeah, it sounds bougie as all hell, but don't believe it. This is us, remember?
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Part 1

Jet to Miami to Nassau---Twin prop to Eleuthera---Taxi to Ferry to Spanish Wells---Exploration of our tiny island

Loaded up the Wagoneer for it's first real haul into the Placer County mountains. Kids? Check. Coolers? Check. Red Ryders? Quadruple check. Holiday traffic for 6 hours on I-80? Yeah...that one's a beast, but as luck would have it Jesse brought his golden jambox and "Pump Up The Volume" soundtrack, so we were totally set.

Kleinman and Eli left way before us to scout out campsites and pick a spot somewhere with water. Got hairy there for a minute as even the campgrounds not on Reserve America were all full and they ended up driving all over the area hoping something would be free---and in doing so, found the best place of all. Nice work, kids.

Took a drive over to Iowa Hill and discovered the biggest dandelions ever.

That's a lot of wish coming true.

Iowa Hill also offered up the relics of a cool old mining town, founded in 1854. I think this was the vault. Or maybe the jail?

People still live (and drink) in Iowa Hill and everything's run on a generator as there aren't any county power lines up there. They only recently got phone lines installed in 2010, before that it was all cell phones if reception came in and the years before that everyone just communicated by radio. Or in person. Makes me want to start a neighborhood string-and-cup line.

The saloon doubles as a convenience store and Friday night dinner spot, not to mention a local history museum. Old maps and photos and a super friendly bartendress not all put out by city folk questions.

Especially concerning gold, which she still takes as currency.

Yeah, Iowa Hill, you're pretty damn cool.

Foresthill wasn't so bad either and offered up the biggest burger I've ever seen: The Mother Load at the Ore Cart Steakhouse. They also featured strong Bloody Mary's and had those outdoor misters going on the porch, so two thumbs up from me.

Back to the resevoir and some time on the water.

And in it. Been too long since we tackled a good rope swing.

Franklin showing how it's done.

Jesse not far behind.

The resevoir's so big there were people cruising around in sailboats.

Our version involved a little rowing in The Tub.

And good old-fashioned floating.

Eli playing Jesus with the monarchs.

Butterflies everywhere, flitting about in the sunshine.

Tried our hand at panning for fool's gold.

Fishing didn't turn up much either.

Night time shenanigans with campfires and feasts and plenty of whiskey. So many stars up there, its like you're staring at stars behind stars and suddenly there's no black sky at all.

Got some troubles but they won't last? Grab that Nancy Sinatra tune and start planning a trip to Sugar Pine. As soon as it starts getting warm, its swim time in the mountains and that's where we'll be. Both Shirttail Creek and Giant Gap Campgrounds are right at the resevoir and within walking distance to the beaches and rope swings. Shirttail has a little creek that runs through it, Giant Gap is closer to the water and the sites seemed a little further apart (I think we had number 25 and it was great). They're all on Reserve America except for a few set aside for walk-ups. There's one particularly magical site for sure, but I'm not naming numbers so you'd best get up there and find out for yourself---I-80 north to Auburn and east on Foresthill Rd. Once you hit the town of Foresthill, stop in at Worton's for supplies and a tasty sandwich overlooking the valley. Keep following Foresthill Rd to the Sugar Pine Rd cutoff...and there you go.

Now that 2011 is tucked safely away behind us, its time to remember that it wasn't all so terrible. In fact, in the spirit of magnanimity one might find there were even quite wonderful times during that otherwise piss-poor year. One of these was definitely a trip up to the Middletown area, where we spent Thanksgiving and the following weekend feasting, drinking and hamming it up board-game-wise in a cabin in Anderson Springs. Oh, and there was a bit of naked new age Harbin action as well...

Took the scenic route up from the city, through Napa and along the Silverado Trail. Picked up a copy of R.L. Stevenson's book "The Silverado Squatters" and marveled at what it must've been like to follow that same trail over 100 years ago, only by train and horse-drawn carriage.

Back in the late 1800's Anderson Springs was established as resort community surrounding the nearby hot springs. A beautiful hotel and bathhouse were built by Dr. Aleck Anderson (hence the name) and his brother-in-law, along with a steam bath and access to 9 different mineral pools. The resort was maintained up into the 1900's by Anderson's daughters before eventually being sold and parcelled out to individual cabin owners. A dammed up pool area still remains for summer fun alongside a grassy area for barbecues and some weather-beaten fooseball. In the off-season the place had a somewhat eerie stillness to it---or perhaps that was due to it's much touted role as host to vortexes and all sorts of other interesting phenomena...

Before falling into our own black holes, Tucker manned the grill and made us a Thanksgiving feast of loaves and fishes.

Didn't find our ore, but Franklin made some friends with the local amphibians.

We also overturned a rock and found an insanely magical crystal, probably the biggest geyode I've ever seen. Left it where it was and hoped for some seriously good karma (ie. the rednecks peeling out down in the valley weren't also breaking into my car?)

Such lovely greenery.

Stumbled upon this weird Wicker Man/Lord of the Flies hybrid. Didn't stick around long enough to find out which age group it represented.

Pulled an evening run to Harbin Hot Springs. If you've heard things about it...the answer is yes. Plenty of nakedness, plenty of weird sex vibes, but you know what? Still totally awesome. Maybe it was the fact that we rolled in 5 deep, but I can't honestly complain. Hot water soaking, silent pools (and not-so-silent pools) and a whole lot to talk about on the ride home.

And then before we could launch into another game of charades-style "Who am I this time?" James and Valerie found a scorpion under their bed.

Luckily it wasn't so lively. It now resides in a nice bed of tequila.

At some point the power went out for almost 24 hours and the grill did double duty as a breakfast station.

Walked around the Middletown cemetery one afternoon. Dates like this always makes me wonder.

Walked along the marsh and picnicked on pickled peppers and peanut butter (best snack ever), then headed back down the trail to White Rock Vineyards where Julia showed us the caves and fixed us up with a lovely drunken lunch before setting us out picking late harvest fruit. All in all, a damn pleasant four days shacking up.

Silverado trail-ers? There's a slow way to get anywhere and while most eschew this factor in order to "get where we're going", sometimes the to and fro is half the fun. This was definitely one of those trips and the times spent in the car cruising along winding valley roads, stopping to purchase beef jerky, whiskey and sour-cream-and-onion flavored crickets were some of the best. As were the bizarro post-Harbin night drives with 6 people steaming up the Wagon beyond all recognition. Should you choose to follow our meandering rout, bypass all freeways if you can help it and take the 101 north to Hwy 37 east and turn north onto Lakeville rd (remember Papa's and the Tin Bar?). Stop for a libation at either or curse them for never being open during normal hours. Head northeast on the 116/12/121 path til you get close to Napa then do some fancy jogging along Old Sonoma rd into town and grab a coffee at Oxbow before hitting the Silverado Trail. That'll get you all the way to Calistoga and the 29 north, which will deposit you in Middletown---an ample starting point for any adventure.

Back in October I took an epic trip up the not-quite-Amazonian Petaluma River. This was my third trip sailing up that way and our second year organizing programs with a local school. It was, and remains still, one of the rare highlights of last year and in truth one of the best adventures I've ever had. In fact, when I got my film back and realized I had nary a photo to show for all the good times (having accidentally shot on slide film and overexposed the entire thing) I almost broke my vow to never put non-film photos up here. And then I didn't, thinking once that seal is broken it'd be like the gateway drug to all sorts of technology (Facebook! Twitter!) But...hell. It's just too good a memory to sit on forever, rehashing only with those who were there---after all isn't this about sharing adventures and getting other people excited to take them as well? And isn't this year about doing and being and relinquishing all those stupid little judgements that hold us back?
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Thus, I give you 5 days of living on the Chinese shrimp junk replica Grace Quan and her elder cousin the 1891 scow schooner Alma.

An auspicious beginning out of China Camp in the pouring rain.

Around the entrance to Bel Marin Keys with a break in the weather.

Happy hour with homemade tonic and a dry deck at Lakeville.

Passing of the lovely Thora, to be met again in Petaluma.

First real morning, awakened at 4 am to rain sheeting down the sides of the cabin through the hatch. Somehow my sleeping bag still felt warm enough to ignore the inevitable until it became, well, inevitable. While the others packed out for coffee I hunkered down and waited out the storm. And, man, when that sun finally came out it was glorious.

Morning tea and a book lazing on deck while the scattered belongings dried and the barges motored past.

Living on the river must be a treat.

Spent the day sailing slowly upriver, taking the occasional dip and finally meeting up with Alma at the Petaluma Marina. A mellow evening in town highlighted by the cramming of 10 people into a Peugeot wagon and a decent sleep before a full day of teaching 45 children about shrimp junks and leather shorts. Oh, and some river navigation and ecology.

On to the turning basin in downtown Petaluma. Love watching the bridges rise for us and everyone waving in their cars.

The River Heritage Center created by the Friends of the Petaluma River---such a beautiful spot. They partnered with us once again and helped us throw a happy hour barbecue and movie night in the barn. Throughout the year they host a handful of events and it's definitely a spot worth visiting, both for the beautiful space and the lovely people.

Our evening continued from a raft-up dinner with Thora (cioppino and endless bottles of wine, oh yes) to some epicly sorry games of drunken pool and jukebox takeovers. Highlights include the longest game of shuffleboard in history (and one in which I was accused of cheating for giving my opponent more points than he actually had), a bar filled with taxidermied animals, a different bar that contained a wall of take-away liquor ("come in for a shot and leave with a bottle") and a hill-rolling challenge that nearly left me concussed for the third time in 6 month. Luckily, there was just a bit of bruising and a strangely sticky sweater to show for it...should you ever find yourself in Petaluma, that hill's a gem

Getting gussied for the public open house the next day.

Which included dockside showers for all of us miscreants.

Rowing to the evening's festivities, with Tucker and Rogers as worthy companions. Why does going by boat just make everything that much more fun?

Another early awakening surrounded by familiar bodies sprawled across the deck and visions of barn-side bonfires and late night rows in Olga. Hustled to get everyone on the public sail then spent the day back on Grace meandering towards Lakeville. Round about 3pm, sitting on anchor, taking in the post-swim sun and along comes Alma with nothing but a Rucker at the helm and an Alice swinging hammock-wrapped between the masts. A few minutes later the rest of the crew rounded the bend looking like a goddamned Gatsby picnic and my happiness knew no bounds.

What class, no?

Another beautiful day, turned into a remarkable night surrounded by a table-full of shipmates and belly dancers at Papa's Taverna and a moonlight trailblazing to the Tin Bar...which happened to be closed and forced us to drink gin and lime juice under the stars til young Miss Trail started snoring at the table. Pretty damn close to heaven.

They say you can never step into the same river twice, that the waters are always in flux. I would like to posit that perhaps the river you sail up might not be the same river you sail down, that something naturally has changed, but maybe that something isn't just the river, its you. And if you can hold on to whatever you learned, whatever feeling the river may have given you, you'll come back with more than just a memory. Hokey, I know, but you've got to start somewhere.

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On Returning? While you may not feel the need to sail upriver in a redwood junk, there's adventure to be had along even the tamest river, its just a matter of setting forth. However, if the Petaluma strikes your fancy, The River Heritage Center will host a gathering of boats and festivities this July for their Rivertown Revival celebration and we'll be back up with Alma and Grace in October. There's always the by-land option with a drive along the lovely Lakeville Highway (off Hwy 37) that'll bring you past Papa's and the Tin Bar before depositing you in downtown Petaluma. Go forth...and have a grand time doing so.

Took a short trip down to Southern California to visit with family. Got a bit of that Fante feeling walking around Echo Park at dusk, but all around such a short venture. Damn warm, though.

Spent most of the time at my mum's fiance's house, as it's nice and close to the beach. It also contains an armory of alcohol given to him and his first wife on their 50th anniversary, all of which belonged to his father-in-law and thus was fairly old to begin with, not to mention of good quality. Dick generously dug it all out and brushed off the spiders for us to enjoy.

And enjoy we did.

Such neat bottles and beautiful labels.

I think we need to amend what we think of as a "full bar".

The true gem was a bottle of scotch given to Mr. Field as a birthday present from Carole Lombard in June of 1937. She was my all time favorite when I was young and still remains up the list. Such a wit and married to Clark Gable, with Route 66 as their honeymoon. Legend has it Gable was starting to film a movie with man-devourer Lana Turner while Lombard was heading off on a Bond-rally tour, so before leaving she she snuck a well-rounded blonde manequin into their bed with a tag that read "So you won't be lonely"---three days later she died in a plane crash returning home and Gable never shook his loneliness. That story always gives me goosebumps.

Never opened, but a quarter gone. Mental math says it's at from at least 1916.

One of my favorites.

I think my sister deserves a spot in a 1970's issue of Playboy.

Walked over to Dizz's for a cocktail, a spot described by my mother as looking like "Stevie Nick's boudoir" (which I'm not sure wasn't supposed to be derogatory) and where I'd always wanted to go after I moved away, having deemed it too adult while in high school. Probably a good thing, as the lady next to us turned out to be the sister-in-law of my middle school librarian and chatted our ear off (pleasantly enough) and I know my fake ID would've cracked under that kind of pressure. Next time we're going back for dinner, her steak looked amazing.

Took off the next day to stay the night with Andreas in Los Angeles. Never spent any time in Echo Park before now (having avoided the LA area most of the time I lived in Laguna, save a few months of weekending in Westwood of all places) and what they say is fairly spot on---its a lot like the Mission, but with 1930's bungalows instead of Victorians. At least that's one sweeping generalization, but it was fun to not hate LA and its goddamn freeway system for a bit.

Dreamed of visiting Mel and Travis's cabin in Los Angeles since we met them here in the city. Day of the Locust-visions were swimming in my head ever since our first talk, especially knowing their kitchen was built on the remains of the wagon that carried Amy Semple McPherson into town---she being the founder of the Foursquare Gospel Church (and its deco home The Angelus Temple in Echo Park, renowned for being integrated in the 1920's, a time when segregation was the norm). She's definitely one of the more fascinating evangelists, particularly starting with the fact that she's female and a bit of a knockout, which won her a following among the flappers---most notably after she was persecuted for having an affair with a married fellow-gospel-radio host, all of which came to light after she allegedly drowned in the Pacific, then walked out of the Mexico desert a month later claiming she'd been kidnapped and tortured. The damning thing was her outfit was impeccable and her spirits (and hairdo) seemed less flagged by a 13 day excursion through waterless wasteland than a couple hours tussle in a clean sheet. As for the cabin, it lived up to every expectation, as did Travis and Mel who are amazingly sweet.

Back up the 101 towards the city, detoured at Bradley to find a creek we'd gone swimming in one hot drive home a handful of years ago. Church marks the spot.

Never going back to my old school? Southern California is always a hard one for me, and Orange County in particular is not for the feint of heart, but...there are some really fascinating parts, both in the landscape and the sociological architecture that's been created there. I know I yell about him all the time, but check out Mike Davis's City Of Quartz if you haven't already. Then start digging into every corner of history that he flashes on, and before you know it you're planning a trip just to find the canyon shack where Faulkner drank his screenplays away... or in bed with Nathanial West.

For a very long time I've hankered after a few specific things, all of which would seem fairly impractical to an outside perspective but that make perfect sense to me. When it comes to these particular items or ideas, I seem to do a damn fine job of slipping an ether-soaked rag under the nose of that little voice that says "no, that's a very bad idea". Not that the voice isn't there, just that its muffled and sleepy and gets overridden with the voice of desire and skewed practicality. Case in point: you have one thing that doesn't work well (or at all), say a boat or a car or a relationship, and most people wouldn't go out and purchase another of the same caliber (see: vintage) without getting rid of the first one, especially if they lived in a garage-less apartment (well, perhaps a new ladyfriend who had a garage could supplement the one that didn't). Anyhow, all of this is usually taken into consideration...except when there's a blinding of desire and you just have to say "yes!" and go for it, regardless of what the outcome may be. It's a 50/50 chance, so why not? And as an older, possibly wiser friend put it "So you're impulsive? That's what I love about you." Just wait til my collection of boats ends up in your yard...

This story, however, begins with an ebay auction and series of somewhat cryptic negotiations, to be followed by a flight to Seattle (which we almost missed as the loudspeaker rasped our names and we bolted down the carpet), a rental car to the Stanwood exit off I-5 and the purchase of a dream wagon. That transaction however, was followed a few hours later by some nasty backfires, an eruption of radiator fluid and a loss of power. Oddly, what followed that wasn't a complete mental meltdown. Instead, good karma prevailed and the car's previous owner, who'd seemed like a really nice guy, was in fact a nice guy and told us to tow the car to his house (always, always, always get AAA) where he would fix it.

Upon arrival to the compound it became apparent this wasn't his first foray into Jeepdom. A collection of old Porsches rounded the collection and it turned out he re-builds old bathtub Porsches by hand. Totally amazing, considering he's kind of in the thickets on Camano Island. With a garage full of tools and parts he figured he and Franklin could get the car fixed up and have us on our way the next day, in the meantime we were invited to stay for dinner and sleep in the guest room. Corned beef smelled good, the kids were excited to have company and we figured what the hell. I still slept with a mag light under the pillow, though.

Checked out the gaggle of chickens, worked on the car and finally got underway the following day.

Returned the rental car in Seattle and hopped on the ferry.

Landed in the midst of some beautiful houses and headed towards Port Townsend. Totally out of the way in the grand scheme of things, but how often are you going to be in Washington State?

Port Townsend = pretty damn sweet. Got in late in the evening, grabbed a cute hotel and some drinks at Sirens where karaoke was in full bloom. Some good ones, some odd ones and a hell of a lot of what people who don't live in the mission continually describe as "hipsters".

Got our walk on, ate a fantastic lunch at Sweet Laurette's and took off again, slightly hungover and bound for Beaverton to visit Franklin's kinfolk. As Beaverton's in Oregon, just outside Portland, it was another long drive, though quite pretty in parts. For some reason I have no photos.

Spent the night in Beaverton, then headed off in the morning to catch the 101 south for our trip home. Had to stop at the Evergreen Aviation Museum in McMinnville and check out the planes. Didn't do the full tour inside, but been there before and it's so incredibly cool, you don't even have to be into planes (though it helps).

The Spruce Goose moved there from Long Beach many years ago and is still gigantic.

They've also taken over some neighboring vineyards and have wine tastings,which makes everything more awesome.

Wove our way down the coast, not stopping much except the occasional thrift store, vista point or smoked fish stand.

Kept thinking we'd stop in some little seaside town for chowder or a nice fresh crab, but forgot that daylight can be deceiving (especially that far north) and all the sudden it was late and we were really bloody hungry. Saw enticing signs for this seafood market on the water, got super psyched and then stood looking at the "closed" sign on the door til the man inside took pity and said he'd give us some provisions to go. Heated us some chowder, wrapped up a crab and we were back in the car (wolfing the chowder, of course).

Back on the road again, we didn't really have a plan, but figured there'd be a good camping spot somewhere in the myriad of State Parks that lay ahead. Enter snafu #1: many parks only have day use, no camping. Snafu #2: by the time we found an awesome park with a campground, the campground was closed due to budget cuts. (This is the part where I go on a 15 minute tirade about what's important in this country). So sometime around 11pm, we rolled into a spot back in a weird canyon with teenagers roaring by at ungodly speeds, it being a Saturday night and all. This is also where I cracked and cleaned the crab in the dark and woke up the next morning with an Exorcist-like case of the vomits. Perhaps is was a gill, then again it may have been baby flu (the Franklin twins had Beaverton beat in the barfing department), but whatever it was it left me down for the entirety of the trip to SF.

I did manage to crawl out of the car long enough to capture this tremendous event. It would appear cars weren't quite as wide back in the 1930's... Regardless, Franklin was a champ and drove the whole way home, no small feat on the 101 and I continue to thanks the heavens for bench seats.